Hooked
by demondreaming
Summary: Cat's sunk a hook into Tori's heart, and she did so gently, so easily, that Tori didn't notice until it hurt to pull away. Cori. Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Victorious does not belong to me, or any of my cousins. AND IT'S THEIR OWN FAULT, TOO.**

/

It started with a kiss.

Just a little kiss. No more than six, seven seconds. If that. You'd been talking to Cat, maybe about school, maybe about a movie you saw. That's not the part you remember, no, it was the lull in the conversation that came, Cat gnawing at her lip like she was thinking about something, considering something other than what you were telling her. You'd felt a pang of annoyance that she wasn't paying attention, but then she leaned over, so simply, so easily, and kissed you. You hadn't even thought you were that close to her. But suddenly, it was close, much too close, and her lips were on yours, and her fingers stroked your cheek, and then she'd pulled back, a little satisfied smile on her shiny lips. Then she'd just gone on talking, chattering about a squirrel that lived near her house, and how her brother would throw rocks at it sometimes, while you'd sat, stunned.

And that was it. She had you hooked. You didn't even realise it at first, how much that little kiss changed things. How your eyes started following her, wherever she went. How you were always the first one to notice when she wasn't there, when she was late. Even Jade noticed, had commented in a snide tone, that Cat wasn't your pet, so you should stop looking for her. She said you were a step away from putting posters up, everytime Cat disappeared for a second. You didn't bother to tell her that it was the other way around; that you were the puppydog, waiting for it's owner to come back. And maybe it's because she never explained why she did it, maybe it's because she never talked about it, but it drives you crazy. You went through a million explanations in your head. Does she like you? Was she bored? Is it just her? What? What is it?

You'd asked her once. Blurted it out while you were sat beside her, hands on your knees, gaze fixed away from her. Her fingers had tickled under your chin, turning your face to her, and you'd swallowed hard, eyes flicking to her lips. But all she'd done was smile, like she didn't know what you were talking about, and let your chin go. You'd still felt her fingers there though. And then just before she left, as you'd walked her to your front door, she'd turned back, coffee-coloured eyes flicking over you. "I did it because I wanted to." You'd swallowed hard, that teasing little edge in her voice tugging on that hook she'd sunk so well in your heart. Pierced straight through the centre.

You understand now why Cat has a new boyfriend every other week. You'd always figured it was a problem with her... you never really understood how someone like Cat could be single so often. She's a little out there, but she's sweet, and she's more than cute; she's beautiful. You realise now it was because she lost interest with them. She just strung them along behind her until she found something new. It's Cat who breaks their hearts, not the other way around. You know, because you can feel the string attached to you, see it curled around her little finger. And she'd done it so subtly, so gradually, you hadn't even noticed how tight it was getting.

Of course Cat noticed. You're pretty sure that's what she meant to do. You don't know why, and you're still not really sure how, but she's got you. And it's not that she notices and just ignores you, or notices a reciprocates. She keeps you hanging, keeps you dangling from that string. She'll take your hand in class, entwine her fingers with yours, and your heart will practically rip itself out of your chest in it's excitement, it's eagerness, and you'll be so scared to move, in case she realises what she's doing and takes her hand away.

She'll lean against you when you're sitting next to her, an arm slung on your shoulder, her hair tickling you. She'll say your name in a soft, almost sing-song voice. "_Tor-i._" She'll give you that little smile that ramps your blood pressure off the charts. That little smile that says she knows exactly what she's doing. And she's so innocent, and so sweet, and you're supposed to be oh-so-much more knowledgeable than her, so much smarter, so much more stable. But you just fall to pieces around her. You're not composed, you're awkward, and clumsy, and you try so hard to get her to notice you. You almost whine and beg and plead for her attention, wagging your tail in the hopes that she'll play with you. You have to rein yourself in whenever you see Jade's eyebrows dip down, whenever Andre glances at you in confusion. This isn't how you're supposed to behave around Cat. But you know the side of her they don't.

It got to the point where that hook in your heart started to hurt, started to rust, and bleed, and you longed to yank it out like a rotten tooth. You were sick of trailing after Cat, just being her plaything that she neglected to play with. But you were stupid to think that Cat didn't notice that as well. You have no idea how long she's been playing the game, and you have no idea whether you're some big fish she's trying to reel in, or just some tiny minnow she's barely aware of, tugging at her line. Either way, you're sick of this ambiguity. Your little infatuation seems so stupid to you, based on nothing, based on fragments that weren't anything but a taste to whet your appetite for her. But you're sick of starving.

You're setting up the Black Box theatre one day for a play that you've written, long after everyone's already gone home. You hold the prop teddy bear in your hand for a moment, fur soft against your palm. Cat's in the play with you. You collapse into one of the fold-up black chairs, metal cold against your legs. You shut your eyes for a moment, hugging the bear to you. You're just sick of it, sick of everything. Sick of having that hook twisted inside you.

When you open your eyes, Cat's there, and you think for a minute you fell asleep, and you're dreaming, because the timing is almost too perfect, and she's all you think about these days anyway. But your dreams have never been this real before. Cat's standing in front of you, hands sweeping her hair forward, white teeth chewing at her glossy lower lip, and you lower the bear clutched to your chest.

"Hi." The word comes out awkwardly, choked by your heart, and you feel like an insect, pinned by Cat's gaze.

Her eyes flick over you, pink tongue running out over her lips, hands smoothing out her skirt. "Want some help?"

You glance down at the bear again. "It's almost done." You stand, expecting Cat to move out of your way, to give you some room, but she doesn't, and you'd move if you could but you're frozen by how close you are to her. Your breath catches in your throat, and that hook twists it's way a little deeper. Even as you're praying she doesn't notice, that little smile creeps onto her lips again, and she leans in, until you can feel her breath feather your cheek. And you're close, so close, Cat's hands linked behind your neck, fingers warm and fluttering.

"Kiss me, Tori." She says it softly, but her tone makes it clear it's not a question. She knows she has you, and you'd protest if she wasn't so right. You close the little gap that remains, and it's like sinking into a soft bed after a long day. It's like a cold drink when you've been sweating all day. And you feel her slip another hook into your already aching heart.

Things only get worse after that. What the two of you have – it's not what you want. You're not even sure what it is. She treats you just the same as she always did; in front of everyone else, she's just normal Cat. But you can't be normal Tori. You're sure that you're losing your mind, and you're losing it to her. She'll sit next to you at lunch, voice bright, chattering away about horrifying things her brother has done, all the random little things that flit through her mind, even while her hand creeps along your thigh before slipping between your legs. And you'll sit there with your breath held in your lungs, too scared to let it out in case a moan comes with it. Sometimes she'll even ask you a question, that smile on her lips even as her fingers rub over you, and you'll stammer something out while the rest of the group looks at you curiously. You're sure Jade must know. She's started to look you over carefully, and when your voice breaks and stutters, her eyebrows will dig down, and she'll say in a careful voice, "Cat got your tongue?" And all you can do is break your gaze from her, swallowing over a rising lump in your throat, and try not to gasp as Cat's fingers rub harder.

You're not even sure if Cat really likes you sometimes. She's never said that she wants you, that she needs you, and sometimes you're sure you only say those things to her every time you're pressed together in the dark, just to see if she'll say them back. But she never does. When she moans, your lips pressed to her neck, your hand between her legs, your name is never in it. You feel so good when you're with her, and so dirty when you're not. So sick. But you still relive those moments with her when you're alone, your fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear. You still bite your lip to stop her name from spilling out when you come.

It comes to the point where she pulls you out of class one day, saying that Lane needs to see you in his office. She giggles in that dreamy voice of hers, and your teacher lets you go with barely a second glance. But Cat doesn't take you to Lane. She takes you to the Janitor's closet, where she always takes you. She shuts the door behind you softly, and you remember vaguely when you used to talk to Cat. When you had conversations with her. But now your conversations mainly consist of long silences punctuated with gasps. Part of you misses having Cat as a friend. But that part is buried at the bottom of your heart, and the multitude of hooks that pierce you now haven't touched that memory. Of what things used to be like.

Her hands slide onto your shoulders, and your heart starts to pound harder. She makes you something you're not, and that something is hot and panting, with clumsy fingers and shivering skin. Even in heels, she's still so much shorter than you, but she stretches herself higher to whisper in your ear, fingers burning the back of your neck. "Fuck me."

The first time she said that to you, while she trembled against you in the half-dark of your room, it made it clear to you that this wasn't Cat. This wasn't the innocent, giggling girl who'd never say _anything _dirty, because it was bad. No, this was another Cat entirely. She plays the part of an innocent so well. You still fall for it sometimes, until it's shattered by those two words, whispered in that familiar, lilting voice.

You push her back against the door, your lips meeting hers even as her breath escapes from the jolt of hitting the door, and you kiss her almost desperately, because every gap, every minute of being around Cat while she ignores you is torture. Every minute that you want her, and you can't show it. Every spurned attempt to hold her hand, to kiss her. She holds all the cards, and you're just the flopping fish, gasping for breath. It makes the time that you're with her so much more urgent, so much more necessary, to make up for the all the things you want to do, but can't. You try to fit an entire relationship into that brief time you're with her, and maybe that's all passion is. Either way, you're never more alive than when you're with her the way you want to be.

Cat's lips part for you, and you take full advantage of that, your tongue running over her bottom lip. She tastes so sweet to you, so soft, so warm. You sink into her, you lose yourself. Your hands run up under her top, wrinkling the magenta material, fingers tracing the ridges of her ribs, and your fingers feel clumsy, feel useless, and you try to engrave how she feels in your memory, for the times she isn't around. So you can remember this is real, even when she ignores you.

You break apart to pant for breath, your lips making a soft sound as they part from hers. Cat's tongue runs out over her pink lips, her hands hard on your waist as she flicks her eyes down pointedly, that little smile shaking on her lips. You swallow hard, lowering yourself to your knees, and you let them jolt on the hard linoleum, enough to hurt. You want to see the bruise it forms later, you want the lingering pain every time you touch it to be a reminder. You want proof this isn't some recurring dream.

Your hands crawl up under Cat's black skirt, fingers hooking in her panties, dragging them down, and it's not fast enough, it's never fast enough. Yet when it's over, it's too fast, it's over too quickly. You're torn in different directions, and you just wish things would slow down. You just wish you could think without her in your head. You kiss along Cat's thigh softly, muscles tensing in the tan skin. It's the only place you can show that you... that you care. Cat's never been gentle with you, never been loving, and you're scared to do the same. She's rejected you too many times. You've gone to kiss her, just gently, just softly, and she's pushed you away, a hand in your chest. And then she'd ignore you for a week, maybe two. She'd be normal Cat, all while the real Cat simmered in your heart, twisting those hooks in deeper. You learned the hard way that Cat doesn't want a relationship. But at least you can kiss her here, in this secret place. At least you can be tender here, because she can't see. Cat's hand tangles in your hair, and you move your kisses higher, start to nip at the skin. You hear her breath catch in her throat, and you pick that moment to drag your tongue across her, that now-familiar taste filling your mouth. Cat's hips twitch forward, her hand tightening in your hair, and you begin in earnest, tongue finding her clit easily now. Cat moans, and you've heard it enough times by now to know that she's biting her lip. The image spurs you on, tongue flicking and mouth sucking, and you remember the first time you did this. You were so clumsy and scared, so in awe of how you could make Cat feel. How you could make her pant, and moan. How you could make her come. How she could pretend that you'd never done that, just minutes later. How she could pretend it didn't mean anything.

Cat's soft moans prickle your skin, give you goosebumps, and you can feel her thighs tremble against your cheeks, start to tense, and you swallow thickly, taking a breath, and it's _CatCatCat_. In your mouth, on your tongue, against your cheeks, in your heart, in your brain. Everywhere. You add your fingers to the mix, pushing them inside her as her hips jump away from the door, a low moan escaping Cat. Sometimes you can fool yourself that it's your name mixed up in them. In those little scraps of words that are forced out of her mouth. And again, it's over all too soon, and Cat's shuddering against you, back arching off the door, muscles clenching around your fingers, breath panting quickly, edged with her voice like gilt.

You pull back, swiping a hand across your mouth, wiping her off you, and Cat's already bending, already pulling her panties back up.

"See you at lunch, Tor." She gives you a quick little smile, voice perky, hands sweeping her hair back into place, and in an instant, she's the Cat everyone else knows again.

And then she's gone, too late to hear the soft words slip from your mouth. "I love you." You think people are supposed to feel better when they say that. You think love is supposed to feel good, to make you soar. To make you happy. But you've never been more miserable. Your heart is full of barbed metal, and it's tearing you apart. You hate that you've fallen for all Cat's little tricks, to lead you on, to get you addicted to her. You hate that she's all you think about, that's you bow to her every little whim, that you let her use you whenever she wants. That you let her make nothing out of what's something to you. You hate that you can't stop, that you won't stop. Most of all, you hate that you love her. You know you're not going to be the one to end it. It can't last forever; Cat'll get bored of you. She's got more than one line in the water.

You stay there on your knees for a while, Cat's scent still whirling around you, her taste still on your lips. You're hooked, well and truly, and you took the bait every time. You let yourself be caught on her. You let yourself fall for her. You stopped trying to get away a long time ago, and now you're just flopping about, gills red and raw, trying to live in Cat's world. But you can't be like Cat. You're going to die up here.

**A/N: This was an experiment.**

**I'm not sure how it went. I heated it for twenty minutes on the bunsen burner, and then I added some sodium hydroxide, and it turned purple. Then I took it off and burnt some paper and that was fun. And I discovered that paper, when burnt, is not paper anymore and gets all over your fingers and just is a mess and that you should really save it on a computer and not burn what you write. And then I burnt a disk, and discovered there are two meanings to the word, 'burnt'.**

**The good news is I proved my hypothesis; I should not do science.**

**So now I'm just using the labcoat to pretend to be a doctor :)**

**Four people have died.**

**Please review :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Victorious doesn't belong to me, anyone resembling me, or that man who stands on Main St, shouting that I do.**

**/**

"She's got you, hasn't she?"

You look up from your notebook, where you're tracing around a heart, running over the lines again and again until they bleed through the page, and the paper starts to tear under the nib.

Jade smirks at you, arms crossed, eyes running over you like you're some specimen she's dissecting with the scalpel of her gaze. "Hook, line, and sinker."

You let the pen drop to your page, a hand squeezing your knee absentmindedly. The bruise that's still there twinges, a sweet ache, and you remember the last time you were with Cat, that love closing your throat and stinging your eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about." You're not even sure you say the words out loud. You've practised them so often in your head, spoke them so often to your heart when it begged to be free, when it pleaded with you to pluck these hooks out from where they bled rust.

Jade sits down next to you, glancing at the ruined heart that stains your page, speckled black. "You're not supposed to fall in love."

You take a deep breath, and it's getting harder and harder to do. Those hooks have dragged your heart so close against your lungs. It's getting more and more difficult to breathe these days. "I don't know wha-"

"You're fucking Cat."

You swallow hard, words dying in your throat. To hear it put so brutally, so plainly. So accurately. That's what you're doing, isn't it? That's all you're doing. "What makes you think that?"

Jade shakes her head, like you're some poor kid who doesn't understand, some idiot with their head underwater, who's drowned out what's been happening on the surface. "You think you're the only one?" She picks up your pen, scrawling a small heart beside your big, jagged mess. She stares at it for a moment before crossing it out, looking back to you.

Your eyes widen, and you're searching Jade for some scar, some jagged wound on her that shows where those hooks have been ripped out. You're looking for some sign that she was like you are now; pathetic, broken. "Y-you and Cat?" You manage to stammer, drawing your knees up onto the bench. You've been doing that more and more often these days as well; hunching up, pulling into yourself. It makes you feel safer. It makes it harder for the hooks to tear you apart.

Jade's head bows forward, dark hair shadowing her eyes. "Me and Cat. She kissed you, right? Out of nowhere?" She smiles bitterly. "That little fucking smile on her face. The one that never reaches her eyes."

"How did you know?" You're asking, but it's not even a question. You know what you're going to hear.

"She did it to me. I turned into the same puppy you are now. The same pathetic, whining puppy." She looks over you, a hint of disgust in her face, and you're not sure if it's directed at you, or the memory of what she was. Jade's quiet for a moment, looking out over the empty parking lot. You're supposed to be in class, with Cat, but you just couldn't. You know you'd sit next to her, and you know she'd touch you, and you know you'd let her. You're sure she notices you're not there now. "You're in love with her." It's a statement, Jade not even looking at you when she says it, hand plucking at a crease in her jeans. She turns back to you, not even waiting for a confirmation or a denial. "Have you told her?"

Part of you says to play dumb. To just shut down and keep quiet. To keep this dirty little secret that's crushing you. But Jade obviously knows, and you're so sick of pretending. To everyone, to Cat, even to yourself. You shake your head slightly. You've never said the words while she's in the room.

"Don't. She doesn't love you." Jade watches as you flinch, the words like a slap. "Why are you surprised? You know she doesn't. You're just a game to her, Tori. Don't fool yourself into thinking you're different than any of the guys she does this with. Don't go thinking you're special." Jade lowers her gaze to her fingernails, and a part of you is scared, that Jade's here, that she's being honest with you. Part of you wants to believe she's lying, that she's just trying to hurt you, but everything she's said you've already whispered to yourself in the dark. You know it's true. "She'll rip your heart out, and she'll apologise, and she'll be so sweet you can't possibly hold it against her. It's your own fault for falling in love. She didn't realise what she was doing to you." Jade's gaze flicks up to you, studded brow digging down. "She knows what she's doing, Tori. She sharpened her claws on me. She's always so sweet until she wants to fuck." You flinch at the word, hearing it in Cat's soft voice. "She'll break you. And she'll leave you thinking you're the one who tore yourself apart. She'll make you hate yourself." Jade lets out a long breath, closing her eyes for a moment, voice low. "Even when you want to hate her."

"Why are you telling me this?" It's not that Jade's telling you anything new. She's just confirming your worst fears. And as surprised as you are that Cat just used her too, you're only surprised superficially. You're aware by now that Cat can hook anyone. She's got a master's touch, and you're not sure if it's instinctive or learned, but you were too naïve to resist. What you're really surprised by is that Jade's not gloating, that she hasn't come to rub your weakness in your face. That she hasn't come to twist the hooks embedded so deep inside you. You're sure she knows she could. It's not hard to make you hurt these days.

"Because I want you to realise, Tori. She will _never_ love you. And as fun as it's been watching her literally fuck you over, I'm sick of it. Stop being so stupid, Tori. Break it off. Stop being so weak."

Part of you wants to protest, to beg that Jade doesn't understand. But you know she does, and maybe these words are directed at herself as well, words she wishes she could've heard back then.

"Stop letting her use you. You want it to end, tell her you love her. That'll end it. She'll cut you off like an infected limb. But you'll keep rotting even after she's gone, Tori." Jade stands, tapping a finger to the side of her head. "Get her out of your head. Snap out of it. I'm sick of her doing this shit. I'm sick of pretending I don't know who she really is. If I thought you could break her heart, I'd tell you to, Tori. But you're nothing to her. You're just another worm she can tie in a knot. You're just another me." Jade looks you over again, disgust wrinkling her lip, "Just don't keep letting her do this to you." And then she's walking away, leaving you aching and helpless, her words sinking into your skin to nibble at your heart, whisper the words close into the throbbing flesh.

You close your notebook, legs unfolding out from under you. You can feel those hooks tugging at you again. Tugging you back to her.

/

"Do you want me?" Cat's voice is light, teasing, and she kisses you lightly, barely making contact, and you try and fail not to press your lips closer.

"Yes." It's almost a groan, a plea it hurts to admit, a confession of a deadly sin ripped from you.

"Do you want to fuck me?" Cat giggles, and those words jar with the image of her you still remember in your head. It's the same voice, but two completely different people, and you wonder if that old Cat you knew ever really existed, or if it was all just an act to draw you in. The memory of that girl has almost faded. You miss her, that sweet, innocent girl. Even if she was all a lie. You really did love that girl. She was your friend.

"Yes." You whisper, hands held at your sides, fingers slightly curled, and you're aching to touch her, aching to get some relief from this tugging in your heart. You want to bury yourself in her flesh, have those soft moans caress you, let them fool you into thinking this is real, and not some fucked up game you keep playing, because you're too stupid to realise you've already lost. It's always best out of three, best out of five. It's a card game, and you're playing with jokers.

You're just some automaton, waiting for her to tell you what to do. To take her top off, to unbutton her pants, but you do it anything but mechanically. You can never stop your hands from shaking, your breath from puffing out over shivering lips. You think she likes that; how nervous she makes you. Part of you is always scared that this is the last time. Another part is relieved at the thought, that this could finally end, that you could be free. But that's a fallacy. You'll never be free, even if you snap every line connecting you to her. You'll still have those barbs of metal rusting in your heart. You realise vaguely that that's why you never saw any scars on Jade, you never saw any sign of her struggle. All those hooks are still in there, slowly being swallowed by flesh. Healed around, but never healed.

Cat's body is warm and slight, and you feel so clumsy as you hover over it, slipped between the sheets at her house, room dim with filtered light. You trace the dip between her breasts, the planes of her stomach, the curve of her hip. They're familiar paths, and it's like following the tree-shadowed road home. Just another corner, and you're there. You're home, and it's a relief.

Cat parts her legs, your fingers tracing over the taut muscles of her inner thigh, and you can feel the heat radiating from her. You know how wet she's going to be, she always is. You're stupid enough to believe you have something to do with that. That only you can do that to her. But you know it's not you, deep down. It's just the anticipation of the act. Nothing between you two is personal, at least not on her side. Who can tell two fish apart? Same bulging eyes, same gaping mouth. The only difference is in the colour of the scales. And yours have been rubbed away by now.

You want to take this slow, to carve every line of her face, of her body, of her breasts, her nipples, her lips, her hair into your mind. To break it down into moments that mean nothing, because it chokes you as a whole. But Cat's panting in your ear, saying she wants you inside her, and you're too well-trained to disobey, to ever keep her waiting.

You slip your fingers inside her with a shudder, as if she's the one doing it to you. But she never does unless it's in public. She never touches you when you're alone. You're left to rock your hips on her thigh, to grind desperately, trying to eke out some pleasure to ease this pain that twists at your heart, because with every moan that escapes her mouth, you know you're getting closer to the end. And then you'll get dressed and leave, and she won't even kiss you goodbye. Your wrist brushes the very bottom of her stomach, her thigh shifts between your legs, her pulse throbs against your lips where they patter her throat, and it's these little details you remember. And if you could only just encompass it all as fucking, like she does. But in your attempt to break everything down into moments, it only makes it clear to you how many steps there are, how many little things you do that aren't fucking. How a word like that doesn't mean anything at all. It's one motion, repeated. It's one moment in your head, littered among the thousands of others. The kissing, the touching, the breathing. You've tried to break it down into pieces too small to see, but it's only made you see how much more it is. It's another failed attempt to make this mean nothing.

Her hands claw at your back as her hips rise off the bed, pushing into your hand, and she's hot and tight around your fingers. She's always begging you to go harder, to go faster, and you're so scared you'll hurt her, so scared your fingers will slip the wrong way, twist the wrong way inside her, scrape or scratch where they're not supposed to. You're never as forceful as she wants. But her nails never dig any less hard into you. You wonder if she's left scars, if her nails have raked paths across your back. You wonder if she's made you bleed. The thought satisfies you. You have no problem with her hurting you. If your outsides come anywhere close to matching your insides, all the better. Maybe then she could see how much damage she's doing. But all she's ever done is trace her fingers over the scratches afterward, giggling with a soft apology. Sometimes you flex your shoulders, just to feel the twinge.

Cat comes with a breathy moan, and you draw it out as long as you can, pressing your torso to hers, fingers pumping even as her muscles clench around you. It's this moment you remember the longest. The moment when everything freezes, when your heart throbs _I love you I love you I love you_, in every beat, so loud you're scared to open your mouth in case it comes out. You're even more terrified now, after what Jade said. You wonder if she fucked Cat in this bed. You wonder if she was as good as you. If she was better. If Cat let her stay afterwards. If Cat ever fucked her here. You're not jealous; Cat isn't yours. No. You are jealous. Jealous of Jade for maybe experiencing more of Cat than you ever can. Maybe she saw more of Cat, back when she was just figuring out this game of hers, back when she was clumsy, before she refined everything. She plays it flawlessly now, and if you only got paid, it'd be a business, it's so well-executed.

You collapse onto Cat as she pants, that throbbing between your legs unabated by your insistent rubbing. All it did was exacerbate it. It's all it ever does. Sometimes if Cat gets up to shower, you'll let your hand slip down and work furiously, rougher and harder with yourself than you ever are with her. You come so quickly then, drenched in her scent, the memory of her still fresh in your head. It's never satisfying though.

As you lay there, Cat's skin sticking to yours, bonded with sweat, her breath slowly easing, you can feel Jade's words crawling under your skin, itching and irritating.

"Cat..." You say hesitantly, those words clawing at you, more insistent than the deeper ache of Cat's hooks. "What would happen if I fell in love with you?"

Cat studies you for a moment, her face blank, and you try to read something in her usually expressive face, to see something in her coffee-hued eyes. But there's nothing you can decipher. "Tor," She says slowly, voice careful, like she's just realised this is thin ice she's skating onto. "This isn't about love. I thought you knew that."

"No, no, I know. I just... I just wondered, is all."

She chews her lip, looking you over, her hands leaving your stinging back, and you wonder if the lines she's left behind match the hue of her ruby hair. "I'm gonna go have a shower, 'kay?" She eases out from under you, standing. Sometimes she invites you to join her, when she hasn't had enough. You get the feeling this isn't one of those times. You've already fucked things up with your stupid question. You knew the answer before you even asked, but your hope's always getting in the way, and this time you've tripped and landed flat on your face.

"You wanna go get ice cream after? My treat." You give her an easy smile. You know it's easy, you've practised it in the mirror a million times. You use it to hide behind, to assuage any suspicions she has. It works this time, as well.

She grins, sweeping her hair forward, hands skimming down over her naked body. "'Kay 'kay." That grin twists inside you, touches those distant memories that hide at the bottom of your heart. It's the same grin she's always given you, before that teasing little smile came to haunt her face. It's the smile you remember lighting your heart up, even when you were just friends. It still does the same now, it just hurts more.

The sound of the shower muffles your quiet moans, your hand working between your legs, back arched off the bed, Cat's sweat still mingled with yours. You feel it rising quickly, pooling in your stomach along with that familiar nausea. You need the release, but you're so sick of it. You're so sick of it being your hand, and not hers. You're so sick of always being the one to fuck her, to beg her to let you. You're so sick of being in love with her.

You come weakly, moaning through gritted teeth, and your fingers pinch around a hook as your muscles tighten, yanking it free in one swift, painful movement that shudders through you. It winds you, and you turn on your side, stomach shaking with silent sobs, and this hot blood filling you, bleeding from the ragged wound you've torn in your own heart. But that's one less hook in you. You're sick of all of this. You'll tear them out, one by one, even if it kills you. Because sooner or later, you're going to admit to her that you love her. And then she'll destroy you so carefully, so easily. You're sick of being used, of being some writhing fish, caught in her net. For every hook she's sunk in you, you're going to return to her, still stained with your blood.

You didn't think you could be like her. You didn't think you could be that heartless. But you figure if you tear every hook out, you won't have much of a heart left. Jade's idea comes back to you; to break her heart like she'll break yours. You're not that mean-spirited, you don't want to hurt her. You just want to stop hurting. You want to stop loving her. And maybe if you tear your heart to shreds, drop every hook in a clanging pile, she can be to you what you are to her; just a toy to use.

It's better than waiting for her to cut you loose, those hooks still embedded. You want her to fuck you, you want her to whisper your name. You don't expect love, no, you're not naïve enough for that. But Cat understands fucking. If you can play at her game, you can get that at least, and maybe that'll soothe you at night, knowing you have that little piece of Cat. Maybe you'll feel less alone, less used, if you use her back. Maybe you can turn this love into just fucking. Anything's better than this writhing self-loathing, this stupid hope, this blind love that twists inside you, flopping painfully. It's time you started pulling against the line, time you made her struggle for you. You're sick of letting yourself be caught, time and time again.

You sit up, yanking your clothes on automatically, your chest feeling hot and swollen, like it's about to burst. But that's one less hook twisted inside you, and you let yourself pluck at another, twisting it in the abused flesh. It's better this way.

/

**A/N: I'd say all this talk about hooks, and angling, and reeling things in makes me want to go fishing, but it really doesn't. It just makes me want to play a fishing game, with poor graphics where you follow the line and you're like "JUST TAKE THE BAIT FIS- oh wait I forgot to bait it. TAKE THE HOOK, FISH."**

**And then after you catch it you just feel kind of lost, because you can't eat it because it's pixels, and you can't show anyone, 'cause you're a loser.**

**But I caught a poorly animated bass thiiiiis big once.**

**So you should review. That's impressive.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: We live in a world of ownership. But I do not. I own nothing but the wind~**

**/**

You never realised love could turn cruel. That's one thing Disney movies never taught you. They taught you that love would prevail, that love would be returned, that even through struggles and trials, it would win, because it was pure and perfect. But this, this festering love in your heart isn't pure. It isn't strong. It's infected and virulent, pierced by those rusting hooks, and likely to be torn apart at any moment. Maybe it's not even love anymore. You want her so much, but it makes you so angry. Maybe it's a mixture of love and hate. Maybe that's why it makes you nauseous. Those are two things you never thought could mix. You're starting to realise there's a lot of things you don't know, that you're more naive, more innocent than you thought. Turns out movies don't tell you the truth, especially children's ones.

You're sitting in your car outside Cat's house, hands on your denim clad lap, gaze aimed straight ahead. But you're not seeing, really. Everything's happening inside your head, and you've stopped looking out the windows. There's nothing to see out there, just darkness. Just streetlights that hurt your eyes when you look straight at them. You narrow your eyebrows, sight coming into focus again as you clamber out of your head. A myriad of dark dots flit and curve around the burning bulb, and you realise they're insects, dumbly bumping into the light, over and over. Thrown off course by a false prophet. You feel some remote sympathy for them; after all, aren't you essentially doing the same thing with Cat? Bumping into her, over and over, and thinking you're actually getting somewhere. Thinking she's the right path to take. You realise you're just fooling yourself, but that doesn't seem to change anything. You keep circling her, unable to break away, mesmerised.

She's waiting for you. You know she is. She sent you a text. One that in the early days would've made your heart beat faster, throb around those hooks. One that would've made you sweat, and bite your lip in anticipation, legs pressing together. You barely glance at it now. Your heart still beats faster, but it's a dull ache.

It's been a few days since you saw her last. Really _saw_ her, that is. You see her at school, of course. It's not that she ignores you, it's just that she's a different Cat then. The Cat you remember as being your friend. She seems so much colder now. But then, she has so much more depth now, and the deeper you dive, the colder it gets. She's not the simple girl you thought she was. Not the sweet girl, not the innocent girl. She's just a brilliant actress.

You're not as good as her. You can't pretend to be the you that you were. You know you're different. Quieter, more pensive. You don't take the risks you used to on stage. You're not sure of yourself anymore, you can't be trusted. Your grades are getting worse, and you know you should care; it used to be such a big part of your life, but you just can't force yourself to make it matter. You remember hearing somewhere that all pain fades as you die. You go slowly numb, until that light is snuffed, and you're gone. You think you must be close. You've been gasping on land for so long; your struggles have almost stilled.

You wonder vaguely what Cat does with all the hearts she collects. Does she keep them? Does she throw them away once they stop beating? Will she slice you open and rip yours free, when she's finally tired of playing the game? You don't plan to find out. You'll tear your own heart out, if need be. You've already scored bloody trenches from where you've torn out her hooks. You've been doing it since you saw her last. Killing parts of yourself. Bleeding slowly into your chest cavity, getting closer to that numbness before death. It's better, in some ways. It's a relief that comes with despair. But you keep finding more and more, and maybe you'll never get them all out. Maybe you're more hook than heart now. Part of you wants to give in to her. Just let her do with you what she will, and accept it with that mute, agonising love held in your lungs, stifled in every breath. There's still a ridge of anger though, there's still that infection in your love, that makes you kick against her control, and as long as that is there, you'll keep struggling.

You open the car door, climbing out, leaving behind your phone, your purse, everything but your keys. You don't want your stuff to smell like her when you leave. You don't want more reminders of her. You walk along her driveway, converse slipping on the slick, dew-wet stone. It's late, and once again, you don't know why she's always alone. Why her parents, why her brother, why everyone goes out and leaves her there. But maybe it's not them leaving her, maybe it's her leaving them. Maybe she doesn't get close to anyone. You realise, with a frown, that you have no idea why she does this. _How_ she does this. You've always been too consumed with your heartache to put much thought beyond _why me?_ There's no point in asking her. You'd only bare more of your soul by asking than she ever would of hers by answering. Maybe she doesn't even know, really. It doesn't matter anyway. It doesn't change the facts. It wouldn't make her love you, and it wouldn't make you hate her.

She answers the door not long after the sound of the doorbell dies, muffled inside the house. Your heart gives a happy little flutter, like it always does when you see her, only to be tugged crashing to the ground as the hooks pull taut. Your heart is a chained bird that can't soar, and it always takes flight at the sight of her. "Hi." You breathe, the beating of wings in your voice, a shaky smile on your lips. Even if you hate, _hate_ this love, it is still love, and it feels so good when you're with her. It's only when she's not there that it hurts, that it becomes heavy and leaden.

She smiles back, sweeping her ruby locks forward. "Hey Tor!" She runs her chocolate eyes over you, appraising, like she's marking out points of your body that are useful to her and which are worthless. She cuts right through your clothes, but she never bothers to go more than skin deep. You do the same with her as she gestures you in, but your eyes are gentler, more lingering, tracing the memories that ghost her skin. Where you kissed, where you touched. She's dressed in an aqua top, spaghetti straps sliding over her shoulders, tantalising your fingers. Her white shorts are nothing more than glorified underwear, cutting high on her thighs, and you know you could just reach up and touch her, without even undoing her pants.

She leads you straight to her bedroom, barely a word spoken. It's become almost ritual, and you remember the early days, when she'd giggle and talk to you, hot kisses given on the winding path to her bed, that led from wall to wall, moments of passion. But now it's just cold, straight to the point. She doesn't act anymore, she doesn't need to. You're already hers, she doesn't need to bait you.

You shut her bedroom door behind you, fingers resting flat on the wood for a moment, before pushing off, turning to face her. She always makes you make the first move, goads you into finally giving in and kissing her. You're sure she wants to be irresistible to you, and she succeeds every time. "I missed you." She says softly, hint of a smile on her lips, and it's another barbed hook cast at your heart, looking to sink in. She didn't miss you. She missed fucking. Not even fucking _you_, just fucking in general.

You move to her, breath caught in your throat, metaphorical fingers tickling over the pile of bloody hooks you've ripped free. You'll be casting your own line tonight, you just hope she'll take the bait.

Her hands link behind your neck, her slim form pressing against you, closing those last few inches until her warmth bleeds through your clothes. "Do you wanna kiss me?" And you do, you do. Her lips are so soft, so warm and drugging, and you want to taste her lips, her mouth, kiss her until she infuses into your blood and makes your head swim, until she eases that pain she causes with her absence of both presence and emotion. She's a painkiller and pain, and both are so addictive to you.

"_No_." The word whispers from your mouth, barely a bloodstained breath, and Cat's face is blank for a moment, like she's never heard the word before.

"No?" Her face shatters from it's blankness, contorting into a giggle. "Why not, Tor?"

"I want you to kiss me." This sentence comes out stronger, still faltering, barely a skeleton of defiance, but still bone.

Cat's breath feathers your neck as she hesitates, fingers loosening where they're linked behind your neck. It's a small thing, asking for a kiss, but you've never asked for one with strength before. You've never refused to kiss her. You let a hand creep down over the front of her shorts, rubbing lightly. "Kiss me, Cat." Your voice is low, almost teasing, and you wonder if she hears the slight shaking in it, or if she's too distracted by your hand, by this new side of you. Your heart is frozen inside you, quivering, and there's that numbness, edged with so many other things. With love, with frustration, with hate, with pain, with anguish. But they're just a border for this blanket, and it gives you control. Control that you know Cat can yank away, but you're trusting that she can't see what's hiding under this sheet of bravado. It's all hot air and no substance, but it makes a scary silhouette underneath.

Cat's breath shudders out, and she leans up, rising up on her toes, just a little, eyes flickering shut. And it's her lips meeting yours for once, soft and unsure, and the taste of this small victory is as thick as blood in your mouth. You've cast your line, and Cat is circling it. You deepen the kiss, tongue flicking over her lips, fingers fumbling with the button to her shorts until it pops open and you can drag the zip down, hand worming it's way into her panties. And instead of soothing you, like kissing her, like touching always does, it crawls up your spine and into your blood, and it's hot and fizzing. It's anger, anger over everything. Over how easy it was to get her to kiss you, over how much she hurts you, and doesn't even realise, over how much you can't help but love her. Over how much you hate yourself for doing so. You're backing her back, her slight form no match for your height, your persistence, fingers working inside her jeans, little slivers of moans vibrating into your lips. She whimpers as you back her into the wall, her shoulders hitting with a soft thud, your body following, pressing close. You want her to feel as overwhelmed as she makes you feel, as she made you feel that first time, when you still thought emotions were in the equation. When you thought she could love you. The thought is a red-hot wire in your brain, burning behind your closed eyes, and you jar your body against her again, to make her aware that it's _you_, that it's not some guy, some girl, but you, Tori Vega, who's doing this to her.

She gasps, winded, and you capture her lips again before she can take a full breath, fingers working furiously inside her panties, growing slick with her heat. Her forearms are shaking over your collarbones, fingers flexing behind your neck, and maybe this is the roughness she always wanted that you were never able to give, that that pure love and concern always got in the way of. But your love is infected enough with hate, with anger, to hurt her now, even if doing so makes your stomach churn sickly, unsettled by this rage, this love, this topsy turvy cocktail of emotions that's seething through your blood.

You break your hard kisses finally, moving your lips to her neck as you drag your hand out of her pants, nipping sharply. Cat moans, hips jerking forward, and you push off her, skin feeling flushed at the flurry of activity.

Cat takes a deep breath, hand raising to her touch the reddened spot on her throat. "Why did you stop?" Her voice is sweetly curious, as unperturbed as ever, and you hate that you thought this sweetness is genuine, you hate that a part of you still thinks it is. You don't know whether she's feeling something or not. She's too good of an actress to tell whether she's genuine or fake.

"I want you naked."

Cat tilts her head, tongue running out over her pink, swollen lips. "Then why don't you undress me?" She raises her arms, flirty grin on her face, and it takes all you have not to move to her. It's instinctual now, to do what she says, to relive the same memories with her. Kiss her, clothes off, fuck her, leave. That's the ritual.

You shake your head, just slightly, swallowing hard. "I want you to strip."

Cat's arms lower, mouth pouting. "Tori, you're being mean." She says it with all the petulance of a child, and just like a child, you know she can just send you away in a huff, frustrated with your defiance. Toys are supposed to do whatever you want, not prick your hand, and you're quickly becoming a dagger. It's time to dull your edge. She's seen the glint of your hook in the water, grown suspicious.

"I'll be as rough as you want. I'll fuck you until you come harder than you ever have, Cat. I'll do whatever you want." The words don't come out as a surrender, as a submission. They come out as a teasing promise, tantalising bait for her to take.

Her mouth twists, before she gives a slight shrug, stripping her top off, the bars of her ribs shifting under her skin as she lowers her arms, dropping the material to the ground. You follow suit, stripping as quickly as you can, fingernails scraping your skin in your haste, leaving red lines. Cat steps daintily out of her shorts, fingers hooked in her panties, and you know she's aware of your stare as she edges them down, fabric skating down her thighs until she's bare before you. You're so aware of your own skin, of every bone shifting underneath, every hair that stands on end. You feel so gangly when you're around her, so lanky and out of proportion, because she's so perfect and you're so you, and she never looks at you like you're special. You're just another body to her, and it stokes your rage anew.

"Get on the bed." Cat's voice is lower now, still edged with that sweetness. But there's no doubt that this is a command, not a question, and the part of you that wants to defy is silenced by your sense. If you push too far, she'll kick you out. She's done it before for lesser transgressions. It's a fine line with Cat, and you're usually unsure of which side you're treading.

You lower yourself to her covers, laying back, hands flat on your stomach, acid churning within, sickly. Cat studies you for a moment, as if she's looking for some mark on you, some indicator that this isn't the Tori she knew, that this is some usurper in an ill-fitting skin. But she seems reassured by your submissiveness. She makes you feel so vulnerable, in the simplest of ways. You're lying naked on her bed, shivering, waiting for her, and you think she gets some pleasure out of making you wait, out of watching you submit to her. She's just as much of a puppeteer as Robbie is. She just tends to use real people instead of wooden ones.

You have no plan, sketched out in your head, no way to make sure Cat falls for you like you did so easily for her. You don't remember all the little things she did, all the little hooks she slipped in, so simply. You're not as skilled as her, not as cruel, and your casts are clumsy and short, plunking into the water. But as she straddles you, your hips instinctively raising a little against her, you become aware again of your spine, pressed into the bed, hard and sharp, running the length of you. You're not about to give up, to give in and let her continue this game she's the master of, this game where she makes up all the rules. You have something you don't think she does; feelings. And not shallow, flitting moods, but things that writhe and swell within you, that ripple under the surface, gestating. And they're going to be birthed tonight. You're going to get satisfaction, or you're going to die. There's no more middle ground, no more neutrality. No more being tugged one way by your heart, and another way by her. You're not a toy, you're a weapon, and you're going to sink yourself into her very core, and make yourself known.

/

**A/N: As always, I humbly request your reviews.**

**My family is starving, and your reviews would feed them for days, maybe even weeks. You see, when in high school, I met a nice tv crossword. My, did he fill out in the time I knew him. But he was also pretty easy, and before I knew, I was pregnant.**

**After a long and intensive wordsearch, in which I almost lost the life of my vocabulary, I gave birth to a healthy cryptic crossword. Raising a child is a bit of a mystery to me, and I can't make heads nor tails of the clues my child gives me.**

**Unfortunately, I live in a country where racism against crosswords prevails (are they black? Are they white?), and ostracism has occurred.**

**My family and I need your words to fill our empty spaces, to solve our problems. Remember, you have the power! For just an easy two words a day (less than the length of a mocha venti grande skim cappucino), you can help my family live.**

**Or you know, you can go do sudoku instead. He's my brother-in-law.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Victorious. Sometimes I want to write 'disclammer', so I can shed these damn clams. But alas, my proper spelling wins out. So... no Victorious, plenty clams.**

/

A whispered breath.

You pause. Was it your name?

But Cat's eyes are still closed, teeth sunk into her lip, and it's impossible to tell. You continue with your fast, hard strokes in and out of her. In and out. Back and forth. It's like playing an instrument, except you're sawing at the strings, stretching them to breaking. You don't care if she breaks. All the better.

Cat doesn't seem to care either, back arching, little soft-edged breaths shuddering out of her mouth, broken breaths that cut your skin. She's getting close.

You remember sitting at home last week, nails splayed in front of you. Unpainted. The slightest crescent of white curved above your fingertips, and you'd looked at them indecisively. Cat likes your claws, but you couldn't bring yourself to unsheathe them. So you'd clipped them back to aching, close to the skin, chips and slices scattering over your table.

You wish you had your claws now. Not to maul her, really, but to show her. Show her you could. That you're not her pet, she doesn't own you. Or maybe she did at one point, but you've lost your domesticity. You've slipped out of your collar, even though she's still got her chip under your skin.

Cat's voice saws at your ribs, faster and faster, moans growing in volume, like some quickly approaching train, puffing black smoke and polluting the air. And then, as her ribs pull tight under her skin, and her back arches like a bowstring-

You stop.

You pull your slick fingers from her, wet against your thigh, and calm your hot breath, pull it out of your mouth and hold it in your lungs.

Cat unwinds slowly, dark eyebrows dipped down. Her eyes open, almost black, pupils swimming in the chocolate of her eyes. She looks so perfect. So artificial. Her red hair is like a bloodstain, some violent fantasy you've held before sleeping, to cast her from you. You run your sweating hand through it, tease out the strands, let it drip over your palm. Cat tilts her head, locks slipping free from your fingers. "Tori! Why'd you stop?" Her voice is petulant, frustrated, and it sends a little pang of satisfaction through you.

"Touch me."

The words are a whisper, almost a prayer, chattered out between your freezing teeth.

"Tor-"

"_Fuck me_." Harder, that fumbling softness gone. You hold your splitting seams together with her rusted hooks, send them out in your voice. You're still begging, but you hold back the most pathetic words. _Just once. Just touch me once_.

Cat licks her lips, eyebrows arrowed, doubtful, but her face is still flushed, her skin is still hot, and her thigh shifts against yours, pressing her core against you.

You let your fingertips creep over her again, Cat shivering slightly. You know she's still close. A few minutes of rubbing, of flicking at that flame in her, and she'd combust. But you're sick of warming yourself off her glow. You want to burn too, until you're nothing but ashes. "Do it."

Your voice is low, thrumming with your blood, and it reverberates through your bones, grips your muscles. "Don't you want to come? You're so close."

This is pleasure in itself. Teasing her. Making her need you. You know she really doesn't, that there are probably a dozen other people she could call besides you. But you're here now, and she's so close. You've coated your hook in sweet things, in the most innocuous of bait. All you need is one bite.

You remember you read somewhere, maybe in history class or something, about cultures that set up fish traps. Traps that were so effective, that they stopped using them. They'd build a wall, a cage, one hidden under the swell of the water, the bones of stones revealed once the tide crept out, and the fish trapped inside. You remember thinking how unfair it was, how easy. The fish swam in, careless, unsuspecting, only to return to a sharp, tumbled wall of rocks. They were trapped without even knowing it.

Cat didn't do that with you. No, she likes to see you struggle. No calm confusion, no subtle capture for you. It's panic and pain that courses through you. But maybe this method could work on her. You've drawn her in with a kiss, blood in the water, and now it's time to let your tide creep out, slowly, slowly, until eventually she's stuck in the shallows, battering at a wall that appeared from nowhere.

Her fingers tickle your thigh, lifted from where they rested on the bed, and your hand is quick to circle her wrist, drawing her hand between your legs. Her hand is still, your wetness coating her, and this is the moment where everything hinges. Whether she decides you're something worth catching, or if it's just better to cut the line, and let you swim with a rotting hook in your lip.

You shudder as her fingers twitch, the lines in her brow smoothing out. Her fingertips find your clit, delving through slick, velvet flesh, and it's a relief that for once it's not your own hand, shaking and desperate after she leaves.

Your spine turns to jelly as she flicks over you, setting a spark and melting the wax of your bones. Your hand spears into the mattress, spine curving forward, unable to keep you upright. And it feels good, so good, a satisfying rub that tickles the back of your throat and sends your blood boiling. If only she'd done this earlier. You never would have escaped her. You're falling in love all over again, but this time your thudding heart is spurting blood from it's ragged wounds. This love can't last for long.

Cat's lips gain a teasing little smile. This is just another game for her, but you're not finished yet. You can't be. You swipe your eyes down, over the curve of her collarbones, marked by your teeth, the swell of her breast, tipped with pink nipples, lathed by your tongue. Her flat stomach, shifting muscles like sand in the dunes of her skin. Your shaking fingers, dripping wax, shiver their way over the sparse patch of hair between her legs, slipping inside of her so easily, burning the ridged tips with her heat, and Cat's smile falters, hand freezing where it rubbed delicately, teasingly over you.

"Tori..." She breathes, and it's the closest she's ever come to moaning your name, the first time that teasing tone has slipped from her voice when she addresses you. It's a _please don't stop, please keep going_, and you echo it back in her name, dripped from your tongue.

Your thrusts are rough, twisting, uneven as Cat's fingers start on you again, strokes more sure, and you're already so close. It's _her_ touching you. It's Cat, the most perfect, shining, wonderful thing in the world. The most rotten, the most corrupt, the most evil thing you know, and this maelstrom of emotions that seep in your blood make your skin burst, make every touch a pinprick of sharp pleasure. She's got you on edge, and she's not even trying. All you need is a little push.

Cat's fingers grow clumsy as her muscles coil, and you wind them tighter with your thrusting fingers. You stop for just a moment, her back arching. The tip of her tongue dabs at her lips, eyes sliding open, and you wait for her swimming eyes to click onto you, breath held in your belly, before you twist your fingers inside her, stroking a spot that's the wick of her flame, that sends her burning.

"_T-T-Tori- Mmph-" _Her spine snaps, like a slingshot released, and the sound of your name in her burning voice ignites you, sucks your breath in with a sharp _whumph_, and your hips are grinding against her hand, that inferno licking through you. And all those times spent alone, your own hand cramping and working furiously, feel like some mere shadow, a wan lightbulb compared to the sun Cat's caused to bloom in you. Your muscles clench in a paroxysm of pleasure, and you're sure if they were just a little tighter, your bones would snap like brittle twigs from the force. Your body is a snake that's just leapt to strike, that's coiling around helpless little Cat, and squeezing her breath out slowly, slowly. Inexorably.

Spittle coats your panting lips, skin like a curtain draped over the rod of your skeleton, loose and heavy, beaded with sweat. Cat's hand slips away from you, creeping to rest on her flat, tan stomach, her muscles already cooling, slick and oiled once again. You unhinge your iron limbs, slide beside her, fluttering wings in your movements, and they beat your breath as you whisper to her. "_I don't love you_."

For the first time, it's true. For now, at least, in this pure moment. You've shed your tight cocoon, and emerged not a butterfly, but a drab moth. She's not constricting your wings anymore, she's not tying you down, and you want to tell her all this, tell her all the things she can't do anymore. But you don't even think she realises she's done them. You're pretty sure Cat's never thought about you. Everything's about her, and you've let it be too. You've cut the juiciest, tenderest pieces of your heart out, proffered them to her on a shining platter, and tonight, she's taken the most tentative bite.

She looks at you, a quizzical expression warping her face, turning it into some garish mask of bright colours and over-exaggerated emotion. "Tori, what are you doing?" Her voice isn't confused, it's soft, and a little hoarse, and you remember how it sounded when it breathed out your name edged in gold, when you saw the string of your line threading from her throat, and knew you'd succeeded. She might not know she's hooked yet, but you'll make sure she does.

"I'm playing the game, Cat." You smile at her, teeth flashing, and it's the first time it's felt real since that pain throbbed in your heart, useless. Your fingers skim her hips, grazing the warm skin, Cat's eyes flicking down to where you touch, where you flutter your fingers so lightly against her. "It's fair this way." You're not a fish anymore, you want to tell her, you're a whole other kind of animal. You're a bird that she can't catch, you're an insect that can burrow down away from her, you're anything but what you were.

She smiles, slightly, lips curving in a cute bow. "All's fair in love and war, Tor." You wonder which this is. Whether it's still love, or if it's war. Whether there's even a difference. It's still a struggle.

Cat snuggles up against you, hair tickling your nose. It's a night of firsts; she's never let you stay. Your hook hit true, sunk deep. You wonder how long it'll take her to bleed, how long it'll take before she touches her heart and her fingers come back rusty. Before she realises. You hope it's soon, while you're still strong, while your heart stills beats and you can still feel something.

You want to tell her you're not a fish anymore. But that would be a lie. You're still a fish, slimy-scaled, big-lipped, gaping stupidly. But you're too big for her. You've closed your mouth on that hook, and spun that line around yourself until it cut into your flesh. You may be hooked, but you can drag her in with you. You can drown her just like she's drowning you. You can hook her just as much as she's hooked you.

/

**A/N: Thanks to this fic, I can no longer eat fish without whispering, "_Tori?_" Just in case. But it turned out to be tuna, thankfully. But it wasn't properly cooked, so it _actually _turned out to be salmon.**

**SALMONELLA.**

**Anyway, while I drink like a fish to replenish some important fluids, you should really review. Because this is the end. No more fishing metaphors, and analogies, or similes. This is the part where I mount this on the trophy, and maybe put in a button so it can sing, and I can sell it in gift stores to drunk people.**


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